


Truth in Fiction

by Lieju



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, One sided, hastings is sir not actually appearing in this fic, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lieju/pseuds/Lieju
Summary: Ariadne Oliver could be very observant, in her special way.





	Truth in Fiction

Hercule Poirot reached to the mail in his desk, and started his daily routine of going through it. First the obvious bills that were opened neatly and set aside to be dealt with later. Then personal correspondence. Just a letter from Captain Hastings today. He skimmed it through. Nothing alarming, so it was set in another pile for later reading. Then last, anything that didn't fit into the two previous categories. He lifted an eyebrow at the package wrapped in brown paper.

He tutted at the book that appeared from within the haphazardly wrapped covering. Of course, he should have guessed by how it had barely held together in the mail.

It was a fairly small novel, with an image of a masked murderer raising a knife to strike a screaming woman in a nightgown. As for why the knife was already bloody when the white nightgown was spotless was anyone's guess.

"The Murder in the Alps," he read out loud.

At least Ariadne Oliver hadn't gone with the original title of 'The Bloody Death That Came in the Night'...

"_Banale_."

And yet he found himself engrossed in the book. It was a simple story, but Madame Oliver was a professional, and could weave a perfectly functional mystery in her sleep and Poirot could appreciate the craft. Of course Poirot knew who the murderer was 30 pages in. Not because he treated the plot like a real crime but because he was used to Oliver's writing. He knew how she set up her plots and misled you, how she dropped seemingly meaningless details that would become important later... How she let you draw your conclusions, never directly lying to you but letting you fool yourself. Of course not Poirot, but people not particularly experienced in recognizing patterns, which perfectly described, in Poirot's opinion, the majority of Oliver's target audience.

He frowned at the book. The basic plot was indeed what he had come to expect from Oliver. Functional, even in a sense aesthetically pleasing in its form. But as far as the characters went-

* * *

"Madame."

Oliver leaned back in her recliner. "Come in, come in." She waved at the chair in front of her. "Sit down. Throw the stuff on the floor. No wait, better not, let me. They're organized."

The manuscripts were thrown on the sofa, presumably in an organized fashion.

Poirot wrinkled his nose at the pile falling in a heap. "Ah."

He took the seat, after making some effort to wipe the cushion with his handkerchief. "I read your book."

"What? Which one?"

"The one you sent me. The newest."

"Oh. Well, I'm working on the next one. It will have only one murder. No, no murders at all. Can you believe, my publisher was complaining about that? Not enough blood he says. Only two bodies."

Poirot decided it wasn't worth it trying to decipher the meaning behind that mess of words and just went with: "Sounds charming."

Oliver bit in the pen she was holding. "Well, spit it out then."

"Spit out t-"

"You look like you swallowed something nasty."

"Poirot has not swallowed nasty things. I read your book."

She cocked her head. "And it wasn't to your taste?"

"This character, this Dutch police officer, why did you decide to make him a homosexual?"

A shrug. "Why do I decide anything? It fit."

Oliver chewed on her pencil again, deep in thought. "Hmm yes, I think it worked well because of misdirection, you know? The reader thinks he is in love with this duchess, you know, and that he is lying to protect her, when in fact it's his friend-"

"Major Trafalgar," Poirot interrupted her. "_C'est ridicule._"

She nodded, looking like she hadn't heard him."Yes, he is lying to protect him. So that's the twist. Draw the reader's attention to him, make him suspicious, and then reveal they were wrong."

Poirot sighed. "You never stop surprising me, Madame. No, if it was anyone it'd be you, wouldn't it?"

"Huh?"

"You're sensitive, Madame. To the intricacies of human life around you. And yet so oblivious."

"What?" Her eyes widened. "Oh. I suppose... I wanted to put a homosexual character in, and then I... filled in the blanks. Oh."

Poirot returned her gaze. "Oh, indeed!"

"Wait, you're- You never told me!"

"Because you did not need to know."

"Oh dear. I'm sure no one will notice. I just... oh dear. And here I thought I came up with the character myself. That I pulled him from my imagination, but..."

"You're more observant, Madame, than you give yourself credit for. You notice things. And then they sometimes find their way into these things you weave in your head."

She shook her head. "I'm terribly sorry."

"For what?"

"For... I suppose for writing it in a book- And I won't be doing it again. Even if I wanted to, I'd never put a real character in a book like that. Not knowingly. Damn it, now that I look back at it I was terribly uncreative,wasn't I?"

"_C'est vrai_. And you were wrong about me and Captain Hastings."

"Oh? I mean, I never implied-"

"We never were... Involved. There were times when I thought... But it never did, how do you say, blossomed? And he was happy, and I wanted him to be... And he married."

There was some kind of change in Oliver's gaze. It's like she was for once fully focused on what was going on right in front of her. "And you played a part. You introduced them to each other..."

"_Qui_," he admitted, not returning her gaze, instead apparently finding the pile of books on the floor extremely interesting.

"And now she is dead."

Poirot stood up. "_Sapristi_, look at the time. Well, we have done the cleaning of the air now, _non_? I trust you keep this to yourself?"

"Of course I will. Wait!” She waved her hand. “I don't know, it is possible I was wrong about it... But maybe it would have been possible? Maybe Captain Hastings could be?"

Poirot gave her a polite little bow. "I should be going."

Oliver didn't stand up to stop him. "Yes, maybe you should. But, maybe... Wasn't at least part of your reason for coming here to maybe know, if it'd be possible now? Just how right I was in my observations? If you and him could-"

Poirot turned to give her one last melancholic smile. "It is too late."


End file.
